A Whiter Shade of Pale
by Kelly Chambliss
Summary: Voldemort makes Harry watch something. How will Harry and McGonagall cope with what he sees?
1. Chapter 1

Title: A Whiter Shade of Pale

Author: Kelly

Characters: McGonagall, Harry, Voldemort, Dumbledore, Grubbly-Plank

Setting: During fall term of Year Six (HBP); this story should fit into the canon cracks, I hope.

Rating: M

Disclaimer: All things Potter belong to JKR and her various legal entities. I make no copyright claims; I certainly make no money.

Summary: Voldemort makes Harry watch something. How will Harry and McGonagall cope with what he sees?

---///---

A/N -- A rapefic -- Somehow you can't write about Voldemort and not write about that. Or at least, I can't.

I've tried not to eroticize the rape or make it more violent than it needs to be for narrative purposes. I'm not sure, myself, if the story works. Do let me know if you find it melodramatic, overwrought, overwritten, or otherwise ineffective.

---///---

Chapter One

The Quidditch pitch was dark, so dark that Harry Potter couldn't see the stands or the goals or even the other players. But he knew he had to get the Snitch; everything depended on it. Everything. He flew blindly, hands groping, but all he found were the rotten flobberworms that he'd just spent the evening sorting in detention with Snape.

Harry flung the worms from him, and as he did, they turned into the familiar golden glitter of the Snitch. A light appeared at the end of the field, and the Snitch was flying toward it and so was Harry and then he was inside the light. . .and the light was inside a dungeon. The room was dim, the air seemed tinged with red, and he felt a tingle in his groin. Oh, no, he thought desperately, not an erection, not during Quidditch. . .

But the dream had shifted into something else entirely -- not really a dream at all. . .

Quidditch was forgotten as Harry looked slowly around the stone room, at the single torch in a bracket, at the narrow shelf of a bed jutting from the wall. He stretched his white, scaly hands in front of him, groping. . .He was more aroused than he had ever been, and he itched to take someone violently, against their will. . .

There was a movement from the bed. A figure was sitting up, pressing itself back as if to escape his notice. Harry flicked his tongue across his lips and gazed, to both his horror and his glee, into the pale, tense face of Professor McGonagall. When she realised that he was staring at her, she squared her shoulders and stared back, though her eyes widened at the sight of him.

"Don't tell me you don't recognize me, Minerva?" Harry heard himself say.

Her hat was gone, her hair hung loose around her shoulders, and her cheek had been grazed by some sort of curse, but none of that did anything to diminish the power of the McGonagall glare. "What is the meaning of this, Tom?" she demanded, sounding for all the world as if she'd just discovered a fourth-year sneaking into the common room after hours. "What do you think you're doing?"

Wheezing sounds came from Harry that he recognized as laughter.

"You were stupid," he said. "Drinking Rosmerta's scotch without spell-checking it first. A rare error, I grant you, but if you _will _hand me such opportunities, you can't expect me to ignore them. And incidentally, don't bother trying to transform. The room is protected."

"What do you want, Tom?"

"Oh, I want many things, my dear Minerva, and I shall have them. All of them. The first is that you will stop calling me 'Tom.' 'My Lord' will do."

"You are no one's lord, Tom Riddle," she retorted.

Anger surged through Harry, and he raised his wand. "_Crucio_!"

McGonagall fell back, her hands clawing at the side of the cot, her body arching against the agony of the curse. But she didn't scream, not until Harry pointed his wand once more.

And then she did.

Harry felt his erection growing, and finally he lifted the curse, ending the pleasure of her pain only because of the greater pleasure he knew lay in store.

Shaking, McGonagall tried to sit up, but Harry was too fast for her. He watched his scaly hands shove her back on the bed, watched his wand Vanish her robes, watched his snake-like pale fingers reach toward her bare throat.

"Arrogant Gryffindor bitch!" he hissed, tightening his hands around her neck. "Too good for me when we were at Hogwarts, were you? Well, how times change." Grabbing her hair, he pulled her face to his as she gasped for breath and tried to push herself away. "You should thank me, Minerva. I'm going to give you the first real fuck you've had in fifty years."

McGonagall stopped struggling and spat at him, eyes blazing. "Go on, do it, then! If you can get your limp Slytherin dick up."

A tiny part of Harry heard these words with a shock, but this part was overwhelmed by a rush of rage and arousal. He rammed himself inside her with all the force he possessed and was deeply gratified to hear her cry out. Holding her hands tightly above her head, Harry thrust and thrust, marveling at how good it felt. "Tell me your little girlfriends were ever a match for this!" he grunted.

He expected McGonagall to turn her head or close her eyes, try to shut him out, but she fixed him with a steady stare of loathing and contempt.

"This the only way you can get any, Tom?" she taunted between ragged breaths. "Forcing yourself on dykes?"

Fury and orgasm built in him equally, and Harry felt himself pounding, roaring, coming . . .


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Once again, Harry found himself shouting and fighting the bedcovers in his four-poster in the Gryffindor dormitory, his scar feeling ready to explode. Last year, when he'd first seen through Voldemort's eyes in his dreams, he hadn't understood. But this time, he knew he had to get to Dumbledore. He pushed his way past his frightened roommates and raced down the stairs.

Dazed and nauseated, blinded by pain, Harry somehow made it to the stone gargoyle outside Dumbledore's office, only to realise that he didn't know the password. "GET HIM," he shrieked at the nearest portrait, a black-eyed witch who took off running after one glance at Harry's face. Soon the stones shifted, and Harry charged up the staircase.

Dumbledore met him at the door. "Harry, what is. . .?"

"He raped her!" He was screaming, but couldn't stop himself. "He raped. . ._I _raped. . ." A sudden spasm seized him, and bending over, he vomited onto Dumbledore's carpet, vomited until his stomach felt torn in half. Dumbledore knelt beside him until the attack passed and then led him, still weakly retching, to a small sofa.

"Drink this," he said, conjuring a goblet out of the air and cleaning the floor with a flick of his wand.

Harry gulped the liquid and immediately felt a little calmer.

"Now then," said Dumbledore. "Another Voldemort dream?"

Not trusting himself to speak, Harry nodded.

"And you saw him rape someone?"

"I. . .I didn't just see him. . .I _was _him. . .I raped her, too, I. . " Harry could feel himself spiraling out of control, but Dumbledore looked at him steadily, and the hysteria passed.

"You've done nothing, Harry. Now tell me. . who did Voldemort rape? Did you recognise her?"

"It was . . .it was Professor McGonagall," Harry whispered miserably.

For an instant, Dumbledore went quite still. Then he jerked his head at one of the portraits. "Go check her chambers," he ordered.

"Where was she?" he asked Harry.

"I don't know. . .a dungeon somewhere. . .Voldemort cursed her drink at the Three Broomsticks and got her away somehow. . ."

"How badly was she hurt?"

"He used the Cruciatus Curse, but she. . .she came out of it all right. And then. . .I don't know. . .I woke up just before he. . .I. . .finished. . ."

"Harry. Listen to me as you have never listened before. You did not rape anyone. You were simply an observer. There is nothing you did to cause it, and nothing you could have done to stop it. Do you understand me?"

"She's not there." The portrait's occupant had returned, sparing Harry the need to reply.

Dumbledore began Summoning owls and writing parchments as he issued directives to the portraits. "Call the Heads of Houses. Phineas, alert the Order. Now, Harry, I'm sorry, but you're going to have to tell me anything you can remember that might help us find her."

Harry had described all of the dungeon that he could recall and had steeled himself to begin repeating Voldemort's words when he heard the Heads of Houses coming up the stairs. Dumbledore barely let them get into the room before he said, "Voldemort has Minerva. He took her from the Three Broomsticks." As if from a distance, Harry heard him dispatch Flitwick to question Rosmerta and send Sprout to organize searches. Then the headmaster turned to Snape.

"Severus, can you think what might be behind this? Why Minerva? Why now?"

Snape's lips tightened as he glanced at Harry, but he answered readily enough. "The Dark Lord said nothing about abducting Minerva, Headmaster; had he done so, I would of course have alerted you. But any mention of her has always angered him. I believe their student days here overlapped; I assume there is animosity left over from that time."

Dumbledore was nodding. "Thank you, Severus. Join one of the searches, if you please."

"Sir?" said Harry, as the door closed behind Snape. "Voldemort did say something about when they were students. He said Professor McGonagall thought she was too good for him then."

Dumbledore sat down slowly. "Our student days, Harry. . .they can mark us for all our lives. No, Minerva would have nothing to do with Tom when they were at Hogwarts. Which was wise: he was interested in her only as a trophy. He made a habit of seducing prefects, and she was Head Girl, after all. But she turned him down, and he doesn't taken rejection well." The headmaster smiled grimly. "As you've seen."

"Professor. . ." Something else was bothering Harry. "You said a while ago that you thought Voldemort was blocking me from his mind. Why could I follow him now?"

"I don't know, Harry. I can only assume that . . .he wanted you to watch."

There was a silence as Harry absorbed this fresh hell, and Dumbledore suddenly looked very old and weary. Harry was torn between a need to spill out every horrible detail of his dream, so he wouldn't have to bear the images alone, and a sense that he should protect Dumbledore and McGonagall both: him from the facts and her from having them known. After what seemed like a long time, he said only, "She was really brave, sir. She never cracked, not even when I. . .I mean, when he. . .she was really brave."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled briefly. "Of course she was. She's a Gryffindor." But then he turned grave. "I will tell you again, Harry. No matter what you saw, you yourself did nothing to Professor McGonagall. Nothing."

"But, sir. . ." Harry felt he was risking the loss of Dumbledore's regard forever, but he had to say this thing or sink under its weight. "Sir. . .when Voldemort was. . you know. . .I could feel what he felt, and I. . .I liked it. I liked hurting her, and I liked fu. . ." Harry stopped in horror at what he'd almost said, but Dumbledore's mild expression never changed.

"No, Harry," he said. "You felt that_ Voldemort_ liked it. That's all." He brought his eyes level with Harry's and repeated, "That's all."

A blast of green light, and Professor Flitwick shot out of the grate in a swirl of ash. "We found her, Albus!" he shouted. "Well, Hagrid found her. In an alley in Hogsmeade. She's been Stupefied, but she's alive. Severus wants to Apparate her to the castle. . ."

But Dumbledore was already waving his wand, disarming the complicated enchantments that protected Hogwarts from outside visitors. "Please wait at the hospital wing, Filius," he said when he'd finished. "I'll join you there."

Once the little professor had left, Dumbledore turned to Harry. "She'll need to know, Harry," he said. "She'll need to know what you saw."

"But. . ."

"It's only fair to her. You must see that."

Gulping, Harry nodded.

"I'll tell her, if you like. Unless you'd prefer to do it yourself?"

"No!" said Harry at once.

"Very good, then." Dumbledore smiled. "Please stay here until I return. Fawkes will keep you company."

And he was gone.

Harry dropped his head into his hands. He couldn't remember ever feeling so wretched, not even when Sirius had died. That had been a different sort of grief. . .painful, yet somehow whole and right. But _this_. . .this twisted his insides like no Cruciatus Curse ever could, because no matter what Dumbledore said, Harry couldn't separate what Voldemort felt from what _he_ had felt. Dumbledore hadn't been there, he didn't know. . .

Harry was startled by a soft touch on his hand. Fawkes had flown down and was brushing Harry's arm with his feathers. The touch moved to his face, and Harry felt himself growing drowsy. Afraid to sleep, he tried to fight it, but the sensation was overpowering. . .

Not until the sleep was deep and dreamless did Fawkes return to his perch.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Albus Dumbledore walked slowly toward the hospital wing. There was no hurry; he knew Madam Pomfrey would admit no one, not even the headmaster, until she finished tending to Minerva.

And truth be told, he was glad to postpone for even a few minutes the task of telling McGonagall about Harry. She would accept the news stoically, of course. . .which made telling her all the harder. It might have been easier -- on him, anyway -- if Minerva were sometimes a little less strong, a little more willing to accept comfort.

Ah, well. In that case, she wouldn't be Minerva.

The corridor outside the hospital ward was blue with smoke. Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank, Minerva's lover of thirty years, was pacing furiously, smoke pouring from her pipe as if it were the funnel of the Hogwarts Express. The Heads of Houses milled about, Severus coughing ostentatiously, and Hagrid stood honking into an enormous handkerchief.

"Poppy says she'll be all right, Perfesser," Hagrid informed him. "But I gotta tell yeh," lowering his voice, "she looked like death; there was blood. . ."

"Yes, thank you, Hagrid," said Dumbledore quickly, mindful of Wilhelmina close behind him. "It's good you found her so quickly. Willa. . how are you?"

Grubbly-Plank grimaced. "Been better. Thanks for owling me, Dumbledore. I. . ."

Just then the double doors opened, and a tired-looking Madam Pomfrey stepped into the hall. "She'll sleep soon," she said. "But she'll be weak for a day or so. . .the Cruciatus. . ."

Hagrid swore, and Wilhelmina puffed harder.

"And there were. . .other injuries," continued Pomfrey delicately. "But she's healed now. You can go to her, Willa, if you. . ."

"Wilhelmina." Dumbledore took her arm. "May I see her first. . .for just a few minutes?"

"A few minutes," Willa agreed after a pause, smoke curling round her cropped grey hair.

Dumbledore moved toward the pool of dim light that marked Minerva's bed. She turned as she heard his step, and relief flooded him. She was very white, and her hair was down, but her raised eyebrow was pure Professor McGonagall. She was back.

"Albus," she said.

"Minerva. I'm glad you're safe."

She nodded. "I was foolish, Albus. At the Three Broomsticks. I didn't spell-check the drink. It was a liquid Confundus, I think. When I left, I took a wrong turning. . .and he was waiting. Or his henchmen were, at any rate."

Dumbledore laid his hand on hers. "I know about the rape, Minerva. I'm sorry."

"Poppy promised. . ." she said fiercely, pulling away.

"It wasn't Poppy." He drew a chair next to her bed and sat down. "It was Harry Potter. You know his mind melds with Voldemort's when Voldemort's feelings are strongest. Harry saw it, I'm afraid. He thought you were brave."

"_Harry Potter_?" McGonagall was appalled. "That boy needs to work harder on his bloody Occlumency," she snapped. Then she rubbed her temples distractedly. "Damn. . .Oh, god, Albus. . .How will I. . ." Crossing her arms around herself, she stared past him, her eyes focused somewhere far outside the room. Dumbledore waited. At length she said, "It was a rape of Harry, too, in its own way."

"Yes. I'm sorry," Dumbledore said again. "He's in something of a state; I've left him to Fawkes."

"Who else knows?"

"The portraits, but they won't tell."

McGonagall glared at him. "I won't be made into a victim over this, Albus. It happened. I survived. I won't be coddled and fussed over. That would be giving in to Riddle."

"My dear Minerva. I have never known anyone less like a victim than you."

Tears glistened suddenly in her eyes, and she swiped at them angrily. "He let me go because he thinks I'll feel vulnerable now, that I'll be afraid to leave the castle in case he's waiting for me. He doesn't want me to make a move without thinking of him. I won't let that happen. I won't!"

"I know you won't, my dear."

Minerva looked away. When she turned back, her eyes were dry, and she gave him the ghost of a smile. "Thank you, Albus."

He stood and raised her hand to his lips. "Goodnight, Minerva."

He had reached the door when she spoke again. "Tell Potter I expect him in Transfiguration on Monday."

"Wouldn't you like a few days. . . .?"

"Monday, Headmaster."

He bowed. "Monday, Professor McGonagall."

---///---

A pipeless Wilhelmina barely let him get out the door before she was on her way in. At the bedside, she gathered Minerva to her almost tentatively, afraid that if she held her as tightly as her feelings demanded, she'd suffocate Min.

Her lover's touch affected McGonagall as even Dumbledore could not; she felt her control begin to slip, and then she was sobbing against Willa's shoulder, harsh, painful cries that tore at her chest. Grubbly-Plank said nothing, just held her, rocked her, murmured wordlessly, until the wracking sobs subsided, replaced by quieter tears. Eventually these ceased as well, and Minerva leaned back against the pillows, spent.

"He fucked me, Willa," she said. She needed the ugly word; no euphemism would do.

"I thought he must have," Grubbly-Plank nodded, conjuring a towel and gently wiping Minerva's face. She asked no questions. Minerva would tell her more -- or not -- as she chose.

"It hurt like hell," said McGonagall, closing her eyes briefly. "But I tried to block that from him. I wasn't going to let him think he'd beaten me."

Wilhelmina snorted. "Take more than a Dark Lord's dick to do that, m'dear." She smoothed Minerva's hair back from her forehead. "You should get some sleep," she said gruffly.

"Stay with me?"

"Always."

When Madam Pomfrey came to check on McGonagall toward morning, she found the two of them asleep in the bed together, Willa wrapped around Minerva like a cocoon. Pomfrey tucked the quilt more tightly about them and tiptoed out.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Harry approached Transfiguration on Monday with the sort of dread he'd previously associated only with Voldemort. He'd spent the weekend trying to avoid as many people and questions as possible. The news of McGonagall's abduction and his own rumoured involvement had spread through the castle with the usual speed of such tidings, and everyone, including the Fat Lady, seemed to want to ask him about it. He'd finally taken refuge with Hagrid, helping him hunt bowtruckles, as far away from even Ron and Hermione as he could get.

He tried not to think about what had happened, yet the feeling of hot shame never left him. His mind kept returning to what he had seen, to the fact that he had watched McGonagall's pain, had welcomed it, relished it -- been part of it. How he was going to face her in class, he had no idea. He would have fled to the heart of the Forbidden Forest if he hadn't known that he'd have to meet her sooner or later.

But the lesson went better than he expected, largely because Professor McGonagall behaved exactly as she always did. She spoke to Harry neither more nor less than usual, checked his work neither more nor less. Her comments to the class were alternately acerbic and helpful, also as usual. She looked and acted so perfectly herself that the other students, who had trooped in excitedly expecting . . .they hardly knew what, were soon trying and failing to transform pigeons into dinner plates quite as if it were any ordinary day. When the class ended, Harry left with Ron and Hermione, making sure neither to hurry out nor lag behind. To his relief, McGonagall didn't call him back.

That evening, though, as he left the empty classroom where he'd hidden to escape his friends, he saw her coming down the corridor toward him.

"Potter! Good," she said. "I've been looking for you."

Harry stopped and stared at the floor. "Um, hi, Professor," he muttered.

"We have some things to talk about, don't you think, Harry?" she asked. Her tone was kind, and she put her hand on his shoulder.

Harry jerked away as if burned. "Things?" he said idiotically, his voice a silly squeak in his ears.

"Ah," said McGonagall. "A little too soon, is it? Very well. Another time, then, Potter. Whenever you're ready."

She turned away without touching him again, and Harry was left alone in the echoing hallway, filled with the sense of his own cowardice. He wished she had been angry, or sarcastic, or. . .or _something_ other than understanding. _She'd_ been the one attacked, after all, and now here she was, deferring to _him, _when he couldn't even bring himself to look at her. He should follow her, talk to her right now. . .

Except that he knew he couldn't do it. Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow. . .

---///---

But he couldn't do it the next day, or the day after, or the day after that. In fact, he did his best to push the whole thing out of his mind. He told Ron and Hermione only that he'd had a nightmare that had turned out to be harmless. He assured Dumbledore, the next time they met privately, that he felt no need to talk, that he was fine. He wasn't sure the headmaster fully believed him, but at least he stopped asking.

As the weeks passed, it became easier to bury the memory of that night. By the time Katie Bell was injured by a cursed necklace, Harry was able to sit with the others in McGonagall's office and tell her what had happened without, he was sure, betraying a flicker of unease. As November moved into December, he could even sleep in peace: he no longer heard McGonagall's screams every night in his dreams or saw her lying beneath him, with streaming hair and pinned wrists, every time he closed his eyes. Since she continued to treat him as she always had, her manner tart one minute and wry the next, he could almost convince himself that she'd forgotten what he'd witnessed.

Almost. She tried, one other time, to raise the subject. They met quite by accident on the marble staircase one chilly afternoon, and he was hurrying past her with a muttered "Professor," when she stopped and said, "Harry, wait." It was the "Harry" that let him know what she wanted to talk about. He took off almost at a run, yelling, "Sorry, Professor, Quidditch practice!" over his shoulder, vowing that he would talk to her soon, very soon. He knew she wouldn't let things slide forever, but he thought he could put her off just a while longer. A week, that's all he needed. . .he'd talk to her next week, he told himself . . .

---///---

"Good evening, Harry. Enjoying yourself?" asked Professor Dumbledore as he passed the Gryffindor house table. The pre-Christmas feast had ended, but many of the students and staff were still lingering in the Great Hall. Harry needed to pack, but he was in no hurry. The Express wasn't leaving until almost noon the next day.

"Yes, thanks, Professor," he said.

"You are going to the Weasleys' for Christmas, I understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Professor McGonagall is going away, too. She often spends her breaks with an old friend."

"Um. . .does she, sir? That's, uh, nice." Harry was suddenly rather too warm, and packing no longer seemed like such a boring idea.

"How are you and she getting on, Harry?"

"Er, fine, sir. We're fine. "

"The two of you have talked?"

Harry began to feel anger along with the too-familiar shame. Why did the headmaster have to mention this now, when everything was going well enough? I could handle it, Harry thought, if you just wouldn't keep bringing it up. . .

"No, not yet, but it's not a problem," he said shortly.

Dumbledore's gaze was mild.

"It's not," Harry insisted. "Why? Did she say. . .?"

"She has said nothing about it, Harry. Minerva isn't one for confidences."

"I don't know what you want me to say, Professor!" Harry burst out. "Everything's fine. She said we could talk whenever I was ready."

"I see. And you are not ready?"

"I, er, well . . ."

"It's all right. These things take their own time," Dumbledore said, smiling over his half-moon glasses. "I wish you a happy Christmas, Harry. Give my best to Molly and Arthur."

He nodded and moved on, but for Harry, the night was ruined. Ron hurried over with a whispered plan about meeting Dean and Seamus, who had gotten hold of some firewhisky and thought they could enchant a classroom . . .

"You go ahead," Harry said, hardly listening. "I. . .I need to pack."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Harry awoke from a dream about the rape, the first in a while. It had been fragmented and incoherent, the details fading as soon as he opened his eyes, but it made more sleep impossible. He dressed in the grey dawn and tiptoed quietly out of the dorm, though he knew his caution was probably wasted. Given the state the others had been in when they'd returned from their night of firewhisky, they weren't likely to wake for anything short of a Weasleys' Wildfire Whiz-Bang.

Hogwarts was dark and silent; Harry made his way to the lawn without seeing person, ghost, or poltergeist. He felt the need for a long broom ride, something to clear his brain and lift him out of the world. Soon he was flying lazily over the edge of the forest and the now-icy lake, soothed by the pristine white frost that turned the entire landscape into a place apart. If only he'd never have to come down, he thought. . .

On the grounds far below, the whiteness was broken by a figure heading toward the gates. Even from above, Harry could tell that it was too small to be Hagrid. Curious, he circled a bit lower and soon recognized Professor McGonagall. His first thought was to fly off before she noticed him, but something about the white morning made him reconsider. Maybe he'd be able to talk to her now, in this world that was not quite itself. Before he could let himself back out, he swooped down to land in front of her.

"Hi, Professor," he said.

He had startled her, he could tell; she half-raised her wand. But when she spoke, her voice was steady. "Good morning, Potter," she said. "You're up early. Your young friends still sleeping it off?"

"Er," said Harry.

McGonagall's lips twitched. "Never mind."

"Um . . .where are you going?" Harry asked and immediately felt, to use Ron's words, like a right berk. What a stupid thing to say. . .

He waited for a sharp comment about the difference between his business and hers. But she just seemed amused.

"In case there's some reason this information is actually necessary to you," she answered, "I am going to the road so that I can Apparate. I have plans for the holiday."

Harry blinked; she'd never volunteered anything personal before. Visiting an old friend, that's what Dumbledore had said she was doing. A friend. . .maybe one of the "girlfriends" that Voldemort had sneered about? Suddenly, Harry hoped so.

McGonagall was looking at him. "Any other questions, Potter?"

"Professor, um. . .about last autumn. . . I know I should have come talk to you sooner, but. . ."

"Nonsense, Harry," she said, her voice softening. "There's no timetable for situations like this." Then in her usual dry tones, she went on, "Not that either of us has much experience with situations like this. It's hard to know what's best. . ."

She trailed off, and all at once Harry understood that she wasn't sure what to say next. He was taken aback; he had never considered that _she_ might be at a loss. . .not McGonagall. . .

"Well," she said, more briskly. "We do what we can. For what it's worth, Potter, I think you've coped admirably. I'm just sorry you had to be put through this."

"No!" He couldn't stand to have her feel bad for him, she wouldn't, not if she knew. . .

"Professor, listen," he said, "that night. . .I didn't just _see _what happened. I _felt_ it. I felt what Voldemort felt. He. . .it was me, do you understand?"

"What are you talking about, Harry? Of course it wasn't you; it was --"

"Would you listen? Just listen to me!" He knew he was shouting at her, but he was beyond caring. Why couldn't she get it, why couldn't Dumbledore get it? He tried again. "Voldemort hurt you, and he liked it, and_ I_ felt him and. . .and _I _liked. . ."

He stopped, breathing hard, the cold air burning his lungs. The hem of her cloak was dark against the white ground, and he stared at it, willing himself not to cry, furious with himself, furious with her. "Fuck it," he muttered and turned away blindly, wanting to head off somewhere, anywhere. . .

"Stop right there, Potter!" McGonagall's voice, harder than the frost, was an Impediment jinx all on its own. Harry stopped dead, his back to her.

"Now you listen to _me," _she commanded, returning to high McGonagall form with a vengeance. "Hard as it may be to understand at age sixteen, not everything is about you. What happened that night is between Tom Riddle and me. It started a long time ago. The fact that you had to be present for the end of it is unfortunate, and it's something I would have given a great deal to spare you, but none of it was your doing."

She took a deep breath and went on, more quietly but no less intensely. "Now, I have no doubt that Voldemort enjoyed himself, whatever enjoyment means to a creature like him. Did you feel some sort of thrill along with him? Yes, maybe you did. It doesn't matter. We all feel dark things, Potter. It doesn't make us monsters; it just makes us human. What matters is how you respond. You could give in, you could mope about and and let some so-called 'Dark Lord' define you, but if you did. . .well, then you wouldn't be the Gryffindor I take you for. But you are, like it or not, because I'm never mistaken about that. Am I being clear?"

"Yes, Professor," Harry whispered.

"Good."

When she spoke again, her anger, or whatever it had been, had disappeared, and she seemed almost as mild as Dumbledore. "Can you look at me, Harry?" she asked.

It was a genuine question, he realised -- of course she'd noticed that he'd been avoiding her eye for months, and she wasn't going to force him.

Slowly, Harry turned to face her. For the first time in a long time, he was looking at her without seeing tangled, loose hair superimposed over the neat bun, without seeing her bare shoulders instead of her green robes, without feeling himself moving atop her. . .

He looked and saw only the concerned face of his Head of House, her eyes holding questions but no blame, her smooth hair topped rather rakishly by an elegant black witch's hat tipped with feathers.

She raised her brows enquiringly. "All right?"

"Yes." And it was. Or if not completely all right, at least better. She hadn't tried to make him deny what he'd felt that night; she hadn't been shocked or disgusted or repulsed. Harry felt lighter than he had in weeks and suddenly found himself grinning widely.

He ducked his head, but she'd seen. "What?" she asked.

"I'm sorry, Professor, it's just. . ." He started to snicker. "I can't help it. . .you. . .you called Voldemort a limp dick. . ."

"Potter!" McGonagall began, but then, to Harry's surprise, she threw her head back and laughed until tears came. With a start, he realised that he'd never really heard her laugh before. The occasional dry chuckle, yes -- but never this full-throated, joyous abandonment. It occurred to him that her friend, whoever it was, was probably going to have a fun holiday.

"Yes, well," she said at last, wiping her eyes. "We all say a good many things, Potter."

She started toward the gates, and Harry fell into step with her. They walked in silence for a few minutes, their feet crunching on the frost, until she became serious again. "At least we've learned something, Harry. Voldemort is powerful; we'd be mad to deny it. But so are we. Deep down, he's very much what he's always been -- just Tom Riddle, a jumped-up prick. I've found it helps to think of that."

Harry started to grin again, until he realised what her choice of these words meant: out here, on what seemed like the frozen edge of the world, she wasn't talking to him as his teacher, but as an equal. As a fellow survivor.

Harry opened his mouth. He wanted to say that he understood; he wanted to say that he thought she'd "coped admirably," too; he wanted to say that he was glad she had a friend to visit -- and that he very much hoped they were more than friends.

Instead, he said, "Thanks, Professor."

This time when she rested her hand briefly on his shoulder, he didn't mind.

They reached the gates, and McGonagall stepped through with a crisp nod. "I'll leave you here, then, Potter. A merry Christmas to you." With a crack, she was gone.

Harry stood for a moment, looking at the space where she'd been, and then he climbed onto his broom and soared into the silvery winter sky.

~~the end~~


End file.
